


The Black Prince

by Matrix_Of_Chaos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, First Men blood has Magic, OC main character, Politics, War, prophecies aren't real, you win or you die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matrix_Of_Chaos/pseuds/Matrix_Of_Chaos
Summary: Mayhaps the Gods had been merciful, to not grant a true-born child from the union of Baratheon and Lannister. For what chance do any of the petty lords stand against a man possessing the cunning of a Lannister and the fury of a Baratheon. This is the story of the Black Prince.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. A Stag among Lions

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of ASOIAF or Game of Thrones, a pity.**

_291 AC_

_Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

Jade eyes met like pair in a clash of wills. One belonged to a prince who shared the blood of men who had defied the gods themselves, and the other, a lord who had orchestrated the destruction of each one of his enemies and through cunning and ruthlessness had ensured his blood would sit on the Iron throne.

It was the latter who broke their contest first. "Daughter, from your letters, I had thought the boy to be of sound mind and yet he stares at me much like your cousin Orson does." He said as he turned toward Loren's mother, who looked abashed at her father's scolding and sent a warning look at him.

"Loren, you do know who this is?" He nodded his head, still gazing up at the man who he knew to be his grandfather. Loren had learned much about Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. The destroyer of houses Reyne and Tarbeck and who restored the name of Lannister carved their golden lion from the mines of Casterly Rock and sewn its scarlet colors with the blood of women and children.

But all Loren could think was that the whiskers that lined the Old Lion's jaw, the narrowing of his eyes and his furrowed brow made him resemble a rather prickly house cat, much like the black devil that lived within the halls of the Red Keep, not that Loren would ever say that to his face.

Loren gave a toothy grin. "You're my grandfather."

Tywin scoffed and Loren felt his grin slip from his face, he had miscalculated, badly. "The boy has an aptitude for stating the obvious. If Robert Baratheon was a woman, I'd say he was Jaime's."

Mother's cheeks had an unpleasant flush, whether, from the insult to her twin, her son or to herself, or all the above, Loren knew she would have _choice_ words with him after this. "Forgive him, father, he is but a boy. Grand Maester Pycelle says he has shown great talent in his studies."

"I did not know Grand Maester Pycelle was the benchmark for determining my choice of heir."

Loren was definitely going to hear about this at dinner.

"Leave us," he commanded, and Loren was left stunned as his mother demurely obeyed. Before today, he would have put his allowance that his mother would never obey a command even if it were from the Seven-who-are-One without her input. He had severely underestimated the man before him.

Tywin settled himself in one of the many plush chairs lining his chambers. "Sit." Loren hastened to obey.

"When I invited you and your mother here," he continued, gaze boring into Loren's own, "it was under the impression that you were to be my future heir, at least that it was what your mother has been saying for the past year."

Loren's blood went cold. He had known the purpose of their journey from King's Landing to Casterly Rock but the way that his grandfather spoke, it sounded as though something had changed.

"You were not what I expected. You obviously have Lannister blood but that does not entitle you to our family's seat. I will only have one heir and I will need as much time as possible to prepare them for the responsibility of ruling the Westerlands. I do not like what I am seeing from you, Loren, and unless you can convince me otherwise, you will return to King's Landing with your mother and I will call for your brother Tommen in the coming years."

That was a bit harsh, after all, he was only eight name days old, but he was still a better choice than Tommen. He loved his brother, but he couldn't imagine that the shy boy who enjoyed jousting with Ser Pounce more than having a conversation could keep ambitious lords in line.

The moment had lapsed into an awkward silence. Tywin’s stare was still upon him, goading and mocking. He could hear the unsaid barbs,

_‘Irrelevant, useless, expendable,_ _just the spare prince’_

He had heard them enough from his brother and his courtiers, who lifted Joffrey to the very podium of the gods and filled his shrine with the shame and misery of his younger brother. Life as the younger brother to Joffrey Baratheon, the Golden Stag, Heir to the Iron Throne, had not been kind to Loren. He had been overshadowed in every way. In their lessons, Joffrey would demand what to be studied and Loren would sit quietly beside him, his word carrying far less meaning than that of his brother.

His uncle Jaime had _tried_ to teach Joffrey how to wield a sword since he was Loren’s age but Joffrey preferred the crossbow that had been given to him as a name day present. And when Loren approached his uncle for the same training, he was sent away and told to ask the Demon of the Trident for lessons.

And even now, when he had the chance to step out of his brother’s shadow, to build a legacy for himself, it was slipping through his fingers, sands of a better future fading into the obscurity that was inevitable for a spare, a minor holdfast, a wife of good breeding and a lifetime of mediocrity. He had the chance to become Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Seven be damned if he was going to waste it.

Loren turned to his grandfather. "Why didn't it work?" he demanded.

"You'll have to be more specific, boy."

"The whole innocent child farce," Loren replied petulantly. Tywin almost seemed bemused by the response.

"What did you think acting like a slow fool would do?"

"It's irresistible," Loren insisted. "Mother's ladies in waiting slip me some chocolates whenever I do it, Uncle Renly bought only me a new doublet when he came to visit, and I even got Uncle Stannis to smile the first time I met him."

"Tell me more." He said, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. The Old Lion may have proven to be more aloof than most, but he could still slip through the cracks given enough time.

Loren’s smile widened, he had his grandfather's attention, he could work with that.

* * *

_298 AC_

The castle of the Golden Tooth loomed overhead. Nowhere near the grandeur of Casterly Rock, the Tooth still stood as one of the most important castles in all of the Westerlands, in no small part due to its bottleneck on the Hill Road from the Riverlands. Standing short and stout, Loren could see it had no lack of defenses. Murder holes lined the walls, no doubt filled with bristling crossbows in times of war. Four ballistae were mounted on the parapets, but there would be no coup on Tywin or his heir’s life today, no bolts were loaded, and no men stood near enough to loose one upon the approaching party. Even from the Westerlands side of the castle, those who approached would find themselves traveling up a not so unnoticeable incline. By no means, equitable to the Eyrie in the Vale, any of those who approached to the castle with ill intentions would find themselves missing much of their army before even reaching the castle gates.

“You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I do not.” Loren rebuffed.

“I’ve been at your side for the past five years cousin, I may not be of Lord Tywin’s brood, but I do still have some Lannister cunning about me.”

“That you do, Daven.” Loren chuckled, turning in his saddle to face his older cousin. Ser Daven Lannister was many things, Loren had learned over their many years together, serving as his squire. His sword arm was quick and bit as much as some of his jests, as he had learned many times in the yard. He favored Arbor Gold, always wanted a cup, before bed. He had once favored in Dornish Red like Loren but that had taken a turn after a trip to the Arbor and a meeting with Paxter Redwyne and his daughter, Desmera. And much to Loren’s displeasure, he was terrible at gambling, which he could attest to from the months of allowance that had been lost to less than ideal bets.

“It’s not proper for a future Lord Paramount to imagine the best course to storming his vassal lords’ castles.”

“All I’m doing is preparing for possible situations.” He said defensively. “What if the Targaryens reappeared today with an army of dragons and elephants and were besieging the Golden Tooth, and they demanded the heads of all Westerman for the deaths of Princess Elia and the babes Aegon and Rhaenys? I would be shirking my duties as the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands to not prepare the possibility.”

His only response was a dry look and a snort from Ser Froley Prester. The Lefford Golden Sun and Mountain stood emblazoned proudly in the courtyard as they crossed beneath the drawn portcullis. Loren nudged his horse to be slightly behind that of his grandfather’s if there was one thing, he learned from his time in Casterly Rock was the importance of appearances.

_“The lion does not care for the opinion of sheep, but we must always remind them that House Lannister stands above them all.”_

House Lefford stood proudly in their best to greet their liege lords. Loren cast his gaze over them. An elderly man stood at the front, he assumed him to be Lord Lyman Lefford, judging by the grey in his blonde hair and the crow’s feet around his eyes. Next to him was his wife whose name eluded him. Loren gritted his teeth, Lord Tywin had drilled all he could about House Lefford into him. The number of levies they could rise within a moon, the amount of grain hey took in from the other houses, their wealth, and even their lineage stretching back a hundred years, but he couldn’t remember the man’s wife’s name.

Loren had no idea why knowing that the first Lefford lord of the Golden Tooth had been a cousin to Joffrey Lydden, first Andal King of the Rock, who became Joffrey Lannister after a Lannister king’s daughter. It had something to do with ancestral claim, a much bigger deal in the Reach where the Florents, among others, were still smarting over the fact they had been passed over for the Tyrells for Lordship of the Reach all because their ancestors were the children of some petty war chief who conquered the Reach some eight thousand years ago and the Tyrells were only a family of stewards.

Turning his attention back to the one other person among the Leffords, Loren was happily surprised to realize it was someone his own age, by the looks of it. Alysanne, if he recalled correctly, only a name day older than him and heiress to the Golden Tooth. Curiously, her hair ran raven black, in stark contrast to that of her parents. There was some Blackwood blood from a grandmother, which would explain it.

Lord Lyman dropped to a knee and his wife and daughter dipped into matching curtsies as Tywin slipped off his horse and stood before them. “The Tooth is yours, Lord Tywin.”

“I would hope so, Lord Lefford, your loyalty to my house is as steadfast as ever.” Loren would have snorted but restrained himself, knowing the punishment would be less than pleasant as Lord Lefford stood from his kneel, scuffing of dust from his pant leg.

His grandfather gestured him over to stand beside him. “This is my heir, Loren Lannister.”

Loren bit the inside of his check to stop himself from correcting his grandfather. It had been decided in the terms of being heir to the Westerlands. Lord Tywin refused to allow a Baratheon to rule over their ancestral lands regardless of how much of his own blood flowed through his veins. And so, it was decided, the Golden Stag would reign as Joffrey Baratheon while the Black Lion would hold Casterly Rock as Loren Lannister. That was not to say Loren was happy with the arrangement. His father may have been a better lecher and drunkard than parental figure, but he was loathed to forgo his paternal heritage so easily. It had been only through a series of skirmishes and conflicts and many concessions on Loren’s part that allowed his own personal heraldry to bear the Lannister Lion in ebony rather than its traditional gold. The concession being it would be rampant on a field of checkered scarlet and gold.

Lord Lyman gave an appropriate bow to his future liege lord, and the Lefford women gave smaller curtsies than those given to his grandfather, deep enough to convey respect, to but not enough for it to be equal to that of their current liege. They truly played the game well, even when the board wasn’t set.

“We have prepared rooms for all your retinue,” Lord Lyman said turning back to Tywin, “The feast will be held at dusk to celebrate the naming of your heir.” They had been traveling all across the Westerlands to announce Lord Tywin’s new heir. Even when a simple raven would have sufficed, his grandfather deemed it prudent to introduce him to the men and lands he would one day rule over. Each castle’s lord presented his own challenges.

Merlon Crakehall had challenged him to a spar, a test to see if the new lion could handle a boar, a challenge that proved to be a mistake as the boar failed to realize he was dealing with the fury of a stag as much as a lion’s cunning. He gained lord Crakehall’s respect and Merlon’s friendship, a reason why the squire accompanied him here today. Of course, not all interactions had been as fruitful.

Loren still shuddered when he remembered their visit to Clegane Hall. The Mountain would better be named the Monster that Rides. Standing near eight feet, he towered over their entire retinue even in his slouch. His third wife stood demurely by him, but Loren could notice the slight flinches that ran through her every time the Mountain moved. When he was first introduced to Gregor Clegane, all Loren could remember was starting in the soulless pits of his eyes and he knew, if Lord Tywin commanded him to kill Loren right then and there, his head would have been popped like a ripe melon where he stood.

“My daughter Alysanne will escort you to your chambers, Lord Loren, there will be servants at your call if you require anything during your stay at the Tooth.” Loren nodded gratefully, all he needed right now was a hot bath to ease his sore muscles from days from riding. Turning to his companions, he could see they had the same idea as him.

“It’s not very common for the heiress of a house to do the work of a servant.” Alysanne only nodded as they passed through the halls of the castle. Loren had an inkling that there was some plan he was not privy to in the works, but he was too fatigued to guess as to what it was. Rather, he slipped into one of his old habits, admiring his present company. Alysanne Lefford was truly beautiful, considering he had the pleasure of meeting other heiresses his age including the Rose of Highgarden and Jeyne Westerling of the Crag, he could safely say she was just as enticing as Rose he nearly plucked. Loren wisely restrained himself when he felt a stirring at some rather fond memories with Margarey Tyrell. Let in never be said that the Reachmen were as lewd as the Dornish but their bounds for what was proper was far laxer than he expected.

He blamed his father’s blood, of course that was his only excuse as he had never seen any of his mother’s side prone to bouts of improper passion, which was sensible since Ser Daven was already promised to a Redwyne as Tywin Lannister, well Loren did not even want to imagine anything his grandfather did in that regard. Then again, he could never imagine uncle Stannis approaching even a mile close to what would be considered passion, and he had never seen Renly with the company of another in the few years they had known each other.

He was brought out of his thoughts by almost running into Alysanne’s back as she stopped in front of his chambers.

“I hope you are more observant while you are in our halls, Lord Lannister, there are quite a few sharp turns and it would not be well for you to suffer injury in such, an unbecoming fashion.” She said as he passed by to enter his rooms. Loren turned to her, stunned. Only his close friends spoke to him like that. For an heiress to decide for that to be her first words to him, well it required no small amount of courage. She obviously enjoyed the look on his face by she smiled, white teeth gleaming behind painted lips as she turned to leave, basking in her victory.

Oh, she was not going to get off that easy. “I will do my utmost be not be struck blind by your beauty, Lady Lefford.” Turning to see no servants in the hall, he bent down to her ear, “Unless, of course, that was your plan all along.” He whispered suggestively. He smirked seeing a blush on her cheeks. It seems his skill with making serving maids in Lannisport swoon hadn’t gone rusty.

“I will see you in the morning, Lady Lefford.”

“I would hope to see you as well my lord.” Before she left, and the last thing Loren saw before he closed the door was her skirts shifting in her wake.

As Loren sat in the freshly filled bath, he smiled to himself, this would be an interesting journey if today was anything to go by.


	2. Loren II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first battle of the war lays on the horizon and Loren learns what it means to be a Lannister.

**Disclaimer: I don't own any part of ASOIAF or Game of Thrones, yet.**

_The Golden Tooth, The Westerlands_

The Golden Tooth, Loren had discovered, had a paltry helping of activities for him to indulge himself. That was by no means an insult to the Leffords or a knock on the importance of the Golden Tooth, simply an observation that a castle built primarily for defense lacked much of the finer aspects of living as those found in King's Landing or Highgarden.

He had first taken the opportunity to sit in on his grandfather's daily meetings with Lord Lyman with excitement, finally a chance to see how it would be like to rule the Westerlands. Unfortunately, the reality was far more disappointing.

Each of Tywin's inquiries, from the upkeep of the Golden Tooth's walls to unrest among small folk, was met with the same simpering platitudes, near twin with those proclaimed loudly by Joffrey's courtiers.

" _Yes, Lord Tywin, repairs of the Hill Road are on schedule. Of course, Lord Tywin, I will make sure that the ravens are well fed. Oh please, Lord Tywin, I will do whatever you desire to have the pleasure of your company."_

The last offer was never voiced, but Loren could see the intentions plainly Lord Lefford's words, he was doing everything to remain in the good graces of the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and willing to do _anything_ his grandfather asked.

It was no different in King's Landing. If Joffrey wanted a new cloak, half of his followers would offer their own, prostrated before him and the others would procure one for him by day's end.

This was not done out of loyalty or friendship. They all wanted something, the favor of the future king, a chance to receive just reward for their _loyal_ friendship.

Loren's lips curled as he thought of the sycophants that infested the court of King's Landing. In the day, they waited on bent knee to do the favor of their betters, and at night, when the summerwine had loosened their tongues, when the façade finally broke, the truth was laid bare, revealing them to be nothing but vipers dressed in the finest silks and bathed in the sweetest of all perfumes.

But there was something else that drove Lyman Lefford to debase himself as he did, it was in his posture, as he slouched to remain below the eye level of Tywin, as to prevent him from directing his wrath upon him.

It was in his eyes, as they flitted across the room, like a rat trying to escape a trap and its imminent death, before ultimately settling upon the Lion emblazoned upon his tunic any time Tywin was displeased with his answers, head bent and eyes downturned.

He had seen it many times among the other lords they had met, how Gawen Westerling had offered his own chambers for Tywin's comfort, how the proud boar, Roland Crakehall promised double the harvest after a _lackluster_ count the previous year, from a single conversation.

There was only one thing that drove these proud lords from their high chairs into nothing but humbled servants. _Fear._

The Lords of the Westerlands feared Tywin Lannister. Loren had known that the name Tywin Lannister was said with both fear and respect, but to this extent, it shook him.

His grandfather's hold on these men was so absolute that Loren knew, even on their deathbeds, surrounded by friends and family, they would only speak of the greatness of Tywin Lannister and they were grateful for the opportunity to serve him.

They would take their hate for him to their grave, they would never voice the desire to see him dead and his house destroyed, for _fear_ of incurring the retribution of the Old Lion, of knowing by their treasonous words they had doomed their wives to be widows, their sons, and daughters killed to a babe, for _fear_ that they would have sealed the doom of their house.

Any meetings between the two rather empty for Loren, after all, what knowledge could he possibly glean from watching his grandfather brow-batter a high lord besides sick amusement? So, he had searched the castle for other pursuits. The library was threadbare in comparison to the Rock's, though he had found a rather enlightening read on the Targaryen-Dornish wars.

He had tried to engage in discussion with Maester Carol over the subject – Seven knows he would never try that again with Pycelle – but the man, whose senses may have dulled since the departure from the citadel thirty years prior, began a lecture on the uses of Tansy in quickening the womb and dealing with afflictions, judging by the lack of silver link, he had found the information less than solid.

That was how he found himself, after speaking with the senile maester, hurriedly dodging a sword swipe at his midsection.

He always felt an odd peace when he fought, as his mind cleared, the world around him fading into incomprehensible grey, and he let himself go, acting off instinct and years of training.

A sword sped forward, threatening his stomach, a well-placed parry sent the blade to the side.

Loren pushed forward, feinting a slash at Merlon's shoulder before swiping at his ankles, missing only by a hair's length as the squire narrowly jumped out of the sword's reach.

Pushing the advantage, Loren jumped into his reach, before bearing down his training sword toward his unprotected forehead. The blade caught by the other only inches from its target, leaving the two duelists in a clash of strength.

The squire he was fighting wasn't shorter than him, if he was, he could have simply overpowered him, nor was he much taller than him. Inch by inch, Loren allowed his braced foot to slip, moving the clashed blades away from the squire's face, and then he saw an opening.

He saw the push before he felt it. Red hair matted with sweat, veins pulsing in his neck, his arms tensing for one last push to help him escape this battle of brute strength.

Loren deftly removed his blade from the fight, allowing the other to stumble as he lost the counterbalance to his strike, before slipping past his guard and dealing a blow with the flat of his blade to the back of his knees, sending him falling to the ground and sword falling out of his grasp.

Loren stood over Merlon, sword dipped low, just pointing into his armor. "Yield."

Merlon strained his neck, glowering defiantly, hazel met jade for a long moment. At the edge of his sight he saw Merlon's sword back in his hand, knuckles white, muscles coiled. Then he let out a heavy sigh letting his head rest on the ground, hand relaxing on his sword.

"Fine," he grumbled. "I yield." Loren smiled but offered his hand to his friend who looked as though taking it would besmirch his already wounded pride, before being pulled up to his feet.

"You both did well," Daven approached from his seat in the benches. Loren realized that a small crowd had formed to watch. It seems he was not the only one who found the Tooth lacking in conventional entertainment.

He spied his grandfather and Lyman Lefford at the edge of the grounds, accompanied ser Prester and other knights. A few others had taken to seats on the benches to watch the squires fight including the castle's stewards and quite a few courtiers.

The biggest group, however, would be the ladies of the Tooth who had taken an entire row of benches for both themselves and their attendants. Fair Camilla Brax sat in a dream of purple, the color of the unicorn emblazoned on her house sigil, chatting away with a woman sitting next to her. Leonette Farmer, daughter of the castle's steward, had her hair done up in a maze of pins and needles, all necessary to support the mahogany disaster commonly referred to as a hairstyle by the ladies of Westeros. And then there was Alysanne Lefford, dressed in a simple dress, rather what passed for simple among the nobility, hair loose, and azure eyes focused intently upon him.

He gave her a roguish smile, in hopes of garnering a reaction as last night but was sorely disappointed as she matched his with her own smile, one that was more mischievous than he would think even possible. She did look beautiful when she was smiling, Loren noted, making a note to get her to do that more.

The dresses adorned by others were like a whirlwind of colors, bright crimsons and dull greys, dashes of emerald and sparks of bright gold, even on a day as dull as this, the women of the Tooth did not disappoint in their appearance.

A sharp scuff to the back of his head brought him quickly back to reality.

"Did you even hear a word I said?" Daven demanded, face red with anger and fist-shaking. Loren would have laughed seeing as Daven only got like this when they were training around others. After all, a knight like him had to keep impertinent squires in check.

"Apologies, Ser Daven, my mind was elsewhere." He had learned that flowery apologies had the effect of increasing Daven's ire.

"Well that obvious enough!" he growled. "I would think that you would know to keep your wits about you in the yard, but it seems I have failed in my teaching duties."

"For your punishment, I expect you to be up tomorrow at dawn, in the training yard, full dress. It's time I take a… more hands-on approach to your learning." Loren did not like the glint in Daven's eyes.

His public dressing down would have continued if not for Tywin Lannister.

"Loren, accompany me!" Even from across the yard, Tywin's voice carried as did the icy steel that accompanied it. He hurried towards his grandfather, noticing him tightly gripping a letter while Lyman Lefford and Maester Carol stood with him.

Lefford's grim visage and Carol's slight jitter caused Loren's blood to thrum, it always did when something important was going to happen, mostly bad. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

No words were spoken as they walked, only interrupted by rushed footsteps as Daven slowed into lockstep with him.

"Do you know what's happening?" he whispered.

Loren shook his head. He was going to ask him the same question.

"Sit," was the only word his grandfather said as they arrived in one the Golden Tooth's private halls, judging by the glass and the cask of Arbor Gold, he assumed it to be Lord Lyman's. Whatever they were going to speak about, required the height of discretion.

"Three moons ago," his grandfather began. "King Robert traveled North to name Eddard Stark Hand of the King." Loren nodded, this was common knowledge. "Shortly after they departed Winterfell," he continued, "Lord Stark's third son, Brandon, fell from one of Winterfell's towers and was left crippled."

Also common knowledge. Loren desperately wanted to ask his grandfather to get to the point, but judging by the tenseness of his shoulders and the stiffness of his movements, Loren's grandfather was only just restraining himself from releasing his Roar.

"The incident was enough to draw suspicion that someone had orchestrated it and Lady Catelyn Stark has arrested … my son Tyrion Lannister for the crime and has taken him to the Eyrie to face the _king's justice_."

Loren was stunned. He had known that there were rumors of foul play, but for Lady Catelyn to imprison his uncle, without evidence no less, it was well within the lines for war, and judging by the expressions on the others, they had also come to the same conclusion. He and his uncle did not have the best of relationships since Loren’s fostering, and after unofficially being disinherited, Tyrion had taken to living in King’s Landing, following the royal processions wherever they went.

Lord Lyman scoffed. "What madness has overcome the Starks do such a thing?" His voice rose, rising from his seat.

"This is not only an insult to you Lord Tywin but to all of the Westerlands! They will –"

Whatever Lyman Lefford would say in defense of his liege's honor was cut short by Tywin's glare.

"Quiet," he growled, Lyman meekly nodded before retaking his seat. "I want ravens to all of my bannermen, from the Crag to Crakehall, to raise their levies and assemble here with the utmost haste." He dictated to Maester Carol who hurried out to fulfill his wishes and to avoid any of the Old Lion's wrath.

"We may not be at war but the trout have dared to challenge the Lion. We will answer as we always do. By the end, my son will be free and the houses of Westeros will know the folly of challenging the name of Lannister."

Loren wondered if this was what Tywin Lannister was like on the eve of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellions, was his goal from the beginning to destroy them or for them to finally respect the Lannister name?

And what would the end of this war look like? Loren could not imagine it would end with simply a peaceful exchange. His grandfather would not be content with simply returning to the status quo if this affront to his family name was not righted.

If the Starks continued this path, Loren knew the only way this would end would be with war, with rivers running with blood, castles broken open, those within killed to a man, Riverrun would burn, reduced to nothing but ash and stone, and the name of Tully would be whispered alongside Reyne and Tarbeck, but another lesson in not drawing the wrath of the lion.

_Two Moons Later_

A sea of banners stood proudly in the wind’s breeze, the purple unicorn of Brax, the Hooded Man of Banefort, the Boar of Crakehall and dozens more flew in the shadow the Golden Tooth. In the center of it all, high above the rest, proudly roared the Lion of Lannister, the undisputed master of the Westerlands.

Thirty thousand men, half of the might of the West made camp outside the walls to the west of the castle. A patchwork of tents and campgrounds littered the surrounding lands and the smell of smoke from the firepits and shit from the latrine trenches were as noticeable as the sound of thousands of horses and their riders within the castle.

Jaime Lannister sat mounted, with ten thousand foot and five thousand horse at his call, preparing to ride out the gates of the Golden Tooth to clash with the Riverlords. Among them was Loren, accompanying Daven who had been given command of the horse. Loren had no idea how everything had gone to hells within the matter of a moon.

The plan had been simple. Stir the ire of the Riverlords, create havoc in their lands and continue until Eddard Stark would be forced to leave King’s Landing to end the threat, there he would be captured and exchanged for Tyrion, simple, but like all plans, they never survived contact.

The Mountain’s Men did their duty well. The brought fire to the Riverlands, sacking undefended holdfasts, burning harvest and poisoning wells with the taint of the dead.

Survivors from Sherrer, a holdfast now filled with skulls of babes and bones of the dead, that had fallen to the Mountain’s wrath had traveled to King’s Landing to plea for the King’s Justice.

And then it was when everything went to shit. His uncle, Jaime Lannister, the Gold Lion, had taken it upon himself to teach Lord Stark what happens when one challenges the lion, leaving the Hand of the King consigned walking with aid of a cane, before fleeing back to the West. Edmure Tully had called his banners and war was now a foregone conclusion, seeing as lords Piper and Vance sat outside the Tooth while the Mountain rampaged through the Riverlands.

Loren grimaced. He had heard tale of the Mountain’s methods, of green boys, cut in half, of girls barely and not even flowered defiled, of babes and crones dashed against walls, it sickened him to think of the pleasure the Mountain derived from the pain he caused but what sickened him far more was how little his grandfather cared.

_“We are at war, Loren.” His emerald eyes, so like Loren’s, impassive gold flecks cold as ice._

_“That doesn’t excuse murdering women and children! There is no honor in this.” was his angry retort._

_Tywin stood but Loren refused to step back even as he stood but inches from him._

_“Honor?” he demanded. “I thought I had taught you better. Honor does not matter. Glory does not matter. Love, fear, all of these are fleeting only one our name will endure, Loren.” His voice rose. “When I am dead when my children are naught but bones in the ground, when you remain only in the memories of crones on their deathbed, it is our name, the Lannister name that endures. I will do anything to make sure it does.”_

Loren had nothing but time to ponder those words, after all, his grandfather refused to put Loren in the field beside the Mountain. What would it look if a prince was consorting with wanton murderers and rapists? He could scarcely see the difference of him being at their side when they did the deed or them being in his employ as they did it, but it seemed Tywin Lannister thought differently.

His attention shifted as the portcullis opened and the foot marched, horses cantering behind. Loren had never known war, but he was sure that the Arbor Gold he was sipping from a flask was not what he expected.

“Too much wine will get you killed,” Daven said, noticing his look, “But, a bit will calm the nerves, make your lance a little steadier, sword a bit more precise.” He shrugged. “That, and I like the taste.”

He had expected that going into battle. It seemed all men did two things before a battle, sought comfort, whether in faith, in wine, or in women, or they emptied their bowels.

Loren had taken to the latter, not a devout follower of the Seven or one who enjoyed the comfort of whores and found himself unable to stomach the sweetness of Dornish Red on the eve of entering the killing fields.

They crested the eastern hillside when they spotted the banners, the Piper Maiden on a field of blue and the Vance black dragon and golden eyes above a host of thousands, but was dwarfed by the size of their host, looking to only reach three thousand men at most. The others must have been guarding the holdfasts against the Mountain.

The men they faced made for a sad sight, dressed in leathers and armed with spears, they were most likely conscripts. The only source of actual danger was the center, composed of knights and retainers to the lords. While Tywin Lannister made sure his forces were provided with the best armor and swords a man could procure.

The helmet was suffocating, he felt trapped in it, only able to see directly in front of him even as the armor began hot in the mid-day sun.

The sound of horns echoed across the field. The Lannister foot pushed wide, forcing the Riverlords to follow suit, stretching their lines almost to the breaking point.

The horse on both flanks began to move faster at Daven’s command. Then the horns sounded and the screams of men dying filled the air.

The blood thrummed in his veins and pounded in his years, even as he charged headfirst into the lines, following Daven.

He crashed into a man, sending him spinning to the ground, never to rise as his horse trampled him underfoot.

He swung his sword.

A man cried out in pain. A spear jutted out, scratching his armor.

He pushed forward as men died all around him.

Gore covered him when the knight beside him found his brains splattered by a mace.

A sudden force saw him fall from his horse, face-first into the ground.

_‘I am dead’_ he thought, darkness covered his vision.

But he wasn’t, he could hear the dying. Crying for their mothers, lovers, the Seven, anything to save them from this hell. He could smell the shit from the corpses, the sweat of horses and men as they fought for their lives.

_‘Who can I call for?’_ he tried to whisper his mother’s name, the woman he had not seen in eight years.

He found himself unable to make a sound as he stumbled up, opening his visor, sword clutched in hand. He looked around, only to look upon a sea of shadows, steel blades flashing against another.

His mount was dead. Or what he thought was his mount. All horses looked the same without a head.

He did not know where anything was if Daven was alive or even if they had won the day.

A blade arched forward, nearly catching his face. He caught it with his blade, facing the man who would kill him.

A boy stared back at him. Not even his own age, maybe just Tommen’s age, blue eyes wide with fright.

He rose the blade, but Loren’s own flashed through the air, cutting through soft flesh. The boy fell, groping frantically at the gash, leaking rivulets of red water from his neck.

His eyes pled with Loren, bartering for his life, unspoken words forming on his lips. Another swing sent the boy to the next life.

The sea was parting, those who lived waded away, searching for others to join the growing graveyard at their feet. His blade was slick with crimson. A blade worthy of a Lannister, baptized in the blood of green boys defending their home from the monsters of the West.

His blood burned, scorching him from within even as it soothed, driving away from the horrors of what he had done and seen.

_Give in._ A whisper, as gentle as a lover’s caress. _It is the only way_. He did not know what he was to give into. He had already sacrificed his humanity, he was a lion now.

_Give in_. It goaded, now in the voice of Joffrey. Red anger clouded his vision as he joined in the debauchery of war, sending souls of young boys and old men to the Stranger with a blade’s strike.

_Give in._ His father this time, roar a crescendo of fury. And Loren gave in. He moved to a tune he had never known in a dance he had never been taught, and his blade sung, a siren’s call, freeing men of this nightmare with its touch.

Loren laughed and laughed, even as he felt himself break within. A knight stood before him, dents and scratches adorning his armor. He advanced forward. Parrying. Slashing. Thrusting. The knight fell back, blade desperately trying to stave off the storm that would consume him, but he fell just like the others, sword far out of reach.

He stood above him, sword ready to strike down. He stood at the edge of a cliff that he had never seen before, did not know what lay beyond, but if he swung down now, there would be no going back. Loren did not care, the storm did as it willed, it would not be commanded this day.

And then the voice rung, different, hard and unyielding as iron. _Control_. It was his grandfather. He looked about desperately. Where was he? Where was the man who threw him into this madness?

It repeated and repeated. It’s chant unending even as the man raised his hands, begging for mercy. The haze lifted, the scorch in his veins cooling, leaving him empty, a vessel devoid of purpose.

He dragged the knight up, tying him to the back of a horse and pushing him towards the Tooth. The celebration was already in full as men drowned themselves in wine and women as they basked in the triumph over death. The follower’s camp would see many newborns in nine moons.

He stumbled towards his chambers, after turning the knight over, not heeding the look Daven gave him. Night had begun to fall, and the torches were bright in the hallways, shadows of dead men flitted about. The door closed behind, and he collapsed, a marionette without strings to support its false life.

It took three servants to help him out of his armor. A laugh escaped him once. It terrified him as much as it did them, empty and harsh. The bath they filled did not comfort him, it was filled red with the blood of those he had killed.

He scrubbed at the stains on his hand, but all they did was spread, wrapping in a cloak of red, maybe his grandfather could present him to his father, another laugh escaped him.

He staggered to his bed, head in his hands. He could not close his eyes, refusing to see the blue eyes of the boy he had killed. This is not what the songs spoke of when the bards sung tales of war, of dashing knights and great heroes. His grandfather is right, none of it was real, a farce, a way for weak men to hide the harsh truth they refused to see.

His door opened, and she stepped in. A flagon in her hand. The blue pools in her eyes widened, mouth curling, in something, disgust, pity? He must have been quite a sight as he sat there. He turned from where she was, unwilling to let another see what he had become.

“Loren,” she whispered next to him. When had she gotten there? Her touch was lightning, coursing through his every pore. He could not let her do this to him now, he had to be alone, to understand what lurked within him.

Unforgiving jade met pleading azure. “Yes, Lady Lefford?” His voice was foreign to him, measured and cool, nothing like the raw madness he expected.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you well?” what kind of question was that. He was better than well, he had never felt like this, never felt like he was overflowing with so much emotion that he had could not feel any of it.

His eyebrow rose. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You weren’t in the hall with the other men. Daven was wor-“

“I am fine, you may take the wine back with you, it is wine I assume? I simply need rest.” He cut in.

_‘Please do not leave_ ’ he begged. _‘If you do, I am lost.’_

She frowned, hand reaching up to touch something at his cheek. “You’re hurt.”

A light burn filled him from where he touched, nothing but embers compared to the inferno that had enveloped him and left ashes in its wake.

She dragged him to the washbasin. A wet cloth appearing in hand. A trail of red rolled down as she wiped at his face, stinging him as it crossed over the cut.

Even as the towel dried his face, he felt it dampen once again. Unbidden tears began to pour, and he clutched to her, a man dying of thirst at the hope of an oasis. She held him to her as he wept, and for that one night, the lion allowed itself the pleasure of being weak before another.


End file.
